


sad but true (we're not us anymore)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant's not really expecting his search to get results, which is why it's such a pleasant surprise when it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sad but true (we're not us anymore)

**Author's Note:**

> This took me _forever_ to finish, my goodness. I've been fighting it since like October, I swear. In the meantime, I am once again behind on comment responses--so sorry! I'll see if I can't catch up tomorrow.
> 
> Fun news! Friday will be one year exactly since _counting down_ was posted. It's my biospecialist anniversary! Expect cake and presents. (That's a lie. But if you follow my tumblr you can definitely expect sappy rambling about how much I love all of you and how grateful I am for these dorks and their irresistible chemistry, which has brought me so much happiness and so many new friends. Fun times.)
> 
> Title is from Halestorm's _Apocalyptic_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant’s not really expecting his search to get results—it’s the very definition of a long-shot—which is why it’s such a pleasant surprise when the Communications agent he ordered to keep a digital eye out for any mention of Jemma seeks him out.

He doesn’t realize that’s what’s happening, at first; he’s just back from a week-long op, he feels like he brought half of the Atacama’s sand back with him, and the dried blood in his beard is itching like crazy. So having some low-level nobody stand between him and a shower is not on his agenda for the day.

But the Communications agent stands his ground (albeit palely and with a lot of trembling), so he sighs.

“What.”

“I, um,” the agent—Grant can’t actually remember his name, if he ever even knew it—swallows. “I…found your wife. Sir.”

Well. That changes things.

Grant consciously relaxes his posture and raises his eyebrows invitingly. It doesn’t do much to calm the guy—he’s out of practice putting people at ease—but at least it gets him to keep going.

“Um, there was a, uh, background check run on Mrs. Ward?” the agent more asks than says. “And I—I traced it to a company called Prospero. In London. Looks like a private research facility.”

“Huh,” Grant says. That’s surprising; he was expecting her to stick with SHIELD. “She applied to work there?”

“Yes,” the agent says. “I—uh, I did some digging and found her application.” He carefully proffers a slip of paper. “It had her current address listed.”

Grant snatches the paper away from the agent eagerly. It’s been four months since he saw Jemma—since the disaster that was the Cybertek op, which saw John killed and Grant forced to abandon his wife and retreat—and he was expecting her to be in hiding for at least a year.  

That he’s found her so soon (and so relatively easily) means there’s about a sixty percent chance that this is a trap.

He’ll take those odds.

“Good work,” he says, dismissively, to the cowering agent, and the man flees.

He looks down at the address, and the sight of his hands reminds him that he’s in desperate need of a shower. He’ll take a quick one, and then…

Then he’s going to London to bring home his wife.

\---

It takes a bit of effort (commandeering a Quinjet, staring down his ‘superiors’ until they’re too intimated to draw out the debrief, that kind of thing), but less than twenty-four hours later, he’s letting himself into Jemma’s hotel room. She’s checked in under her own (maiden) name, which increases the chances of this being a trap by at least five percent, but he didn’t come all this way just to give up.

She’s not in, at the minute, so he makes himself comfortable on the bed and settles in to wait.

It’s exactly the type of generic, blandly decorated room he’d expect from this kind of mid-range hotel, and he’s not sure whether or not that lends credence to the trap theory. It’s a cheaper hotel than he’d take on vacation, but much nicer than he’d choose if he were trying to lay low.

He reminds himself that Jemma doesn’t have his training, that her choices are usually mandated by things other than strategy. In this case, her reasons are probably monetary. This place is nice enough that she can stand to stay in it for an extended period, but cheap enough that she can easily afford it.

Or so he assumes, at least. She hasn’t touched any of their bank accounts; he has no idea whose money she’s using. Her parents’, maybe.

However she’s paying for it, it’s not a bad room. She’s made herself at home; one of the sliding closet doors is ajar, and he can see her clothes hanging up in it. There’s a jacket slung over the back of the desk chair and a stack of print-outs on the nightstand. Curious, he flips through them; they’re info packets about six different research labs, all of their margins filled with notes in Jemma’s handwriting.

He’s reading through the notes on the fourth lab (they’re hilariously snide; apparently Jemma is _not_ impressed) when he hears the key card in the door. He returns the info packets to the nightstand and sits up, waiting.

Jemma doesn’t notice him when she walks in.

He drinks her in as she drops her key card on the entry table and kicks off her shoes, and he finds himself frowning. She’s as gorgeous as ever, of course, but she looks tired and unhappy. There’s an almost dejected slump to her shoulders, and after she turns to throw the deadbolt on the door, she leans against it, pressing her forehead into the wood and giving a long, heavy sigh. Her purse slips out of her hand to land at her feet with a _thump_.

“Rough day?” he asks, sympathetic, and she jumps, whirling to face him with a hand pressed to her throat.

“Sorry,” he adds. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Which is a lie, of course. People are easy to read when they’re startled, and he has a lot of questions about Jemma right now.

“Grant,” she says tremulously, pressing her hand a little more firmly against her throat. “I didn’t…” She takes a deep breath. “How did you find me?”

“Job-hunting,” he says, grabbing one of the info packets and holding it up. “Background check raised a flag. A little hacking found your application, which listed this hotel as your current residence.” He drops the info packet back onto the stack. “Easy.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. She leans against the door, head falling back to thunk against the wood, and closes her eyes. “Are you here to kill me?”

An annoying, if unfortunately understandable, question.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

“Well, that’s something,” she murmurs.

“You look tired,” he says. She opens her eyes, and he pats the bedspread beside him. “Why don’t you sit down for a while? Get off your feet.”

She gives him a long, evaluating look. He smiles innocently.

She sighs. “All right.”

There’s tension in her posture as she crosses the room to join him, but she sits next to him with no hint of reluctance. She doesn’t look at him, though; her eyes are fixed firmly on the door.

He’s getting some mixed signals, here.

“So why are you job hunting, anyway?” he asks. “I expected you to stick with SHIELD.”

She stiffens.

“So did I,” she says, hands fisting on her thighs. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.”

“No?”

“No,” she says shortly.

“Why not?” he asks, and she surges to her feet.

“You didn’t track me down and break into my hotel room to talk to me about job hunting,” she says, stalking away from the bed. It’s a great view—she’s wearing one of his favorite skirts—but it’s not really enough to make up for the sting of watching her walk away from him _again_. “Stop playing games and tell me what you _want_.”

She turns back to face him as he stands.

“Can’t a man worry about his wife?” he asks, spreading his hands in a show of innocence. Jemma stills, eyes visibly catching on his wedding ring. “You’re all alone in a foreign country, with no one to watch your back and what I have to assume are limited funds. Anything could happen.”

She’s quiet for a minute. Her eyes stay locked on his wedding ring, even as he lowers his hands to his sides again.

“It’s not a foreign country,” she says finally. “Not to me.”

“Point,” he admits. “But that raises issues of its own. Like why you’re paying to live in a hotel when your parents and their large, mostly empty house are only a few hours away.”

“Was that a question?” she asks, shifting on her feet.

He studies her, assessing her stance and the tension in her frame. She’s about to do something—to make some kind of move. But not a violent one, he doesn’t think. She’s preparing for forward motion and there’s nothing she could use as a weapon between him and her place near the closet. And he’s positive she’s unarmed.

She’s nervous—uneasy. The chances of this being some kind of ploy are rising by the second, but if it is, he’s pretty sure it’s not the kind of ploy that ends with him dead.

Whatever it is, he can handle it.

“It was,” he says. “But I get the feeling there are other questions I should be asking.”

She swallows.

“Maybe there are,” she says, and moves.

Grant is surprised. Of all the angles he was considering, he didn’t give much thought to the possibility that she might throw herself into his arms and kiss him.

Still, he doesn’t hesitate to kiss her back. It’s frantic and sloppy with four months of pent-up passion; her nails dig into his shoulders as he pulls her up against him with an arm around her waist, and when he fists his other hand in her hair, she bites his bottom lip hard enough to sting.

Whatever tiny measure of control he had left snaps, and while he’s still not sure this isn’t a trap…

It’s easy to get lost in her, to let desire and how much he’s missed her—god _damn_ has he missed her—push suspicion aside.

He’s maybe a little overzealous when he pulls her shirt off—he’s pretty sure he hears a few buttons hit the ground—but she doesn’t complain. She’s just as desperate, scrabbling to shove his shirt up and over his head. By the time it hits the floor he’s already got her skirt off of her, and he interrupts her attempts to unbuckle his belt by backing her up against the bed.

Getting her on the bed and laid out under him without breaking their kiss is kind of a complicated maneuver, but he manages. Oxygen’s starting to become an issue at this point, because the fraction of a second he took to pull his shirt over his head wasn’t really enough to help, but all of his senses are filled up with her, with her mouth and her skin and the little noises she’s making in the back of her throat, and who the fuck cares about air when there’s _this_ to keep him going instead?

Eventually, though, the burning in his lungs wins out, and he tears his mouth away from hers. If his jeans weren’t already uncomfortably tight, hearing the little whine she lets out—hell, hearing her _breathing_ , just as ragged as his own—would do the job.

But so would feeling the way her pulse is hammering in her throat as he kisses her neck. And the taste of her skin, the slide of her hands over his back, the way her whole body jerks when he nips at her collarbone…

Everything about her is such a turn-on that it’s a miracle he ever gets anything else done.

Not that he intends to do anything else for the foreseeable future. It’s been four months since the last time, and that was so quick and desperate it barely counted. He’s got a _lot_ of plans for her; they’re not leaving this room today. Probably not tomorrow, either.

There’s a little niggle in the back of his mind, though, a quiet instinct that he can’t ignore as he kisses his way down her chest. He _wants_ to ignore it—that four months isn’t the longest he’s ever gone without touching her (nothing will ever beat the fucking terrible sixteen months he spent in Warsaw) doesn’t mean it was easy—but he can’t. He hasn’t survived this long by dismissing his instincts.

So, reluctantly, he puts aside all of his plans for her and lets himself take in what’s wrong.

Her skin is chilled under his lips. She tends to run cold anyway and she’s not wearing much, so it’s not unreasonable, but still. It makes him take notice—reassess.

Her eyes are shut tight. Her heart is racing. Her nails are digging into his back.

All usual signs of her arousal, but…there’s a stillness to her. A stiffness in her spine.

She’s not turned on. She’s scared.

Fuck.

He sighs heavily and lets his head fall forward to rest against her collarbone.

“Grant?” she asks, and the waver in her voice kills his hard on more effectively than any cold shower ever could. He presses one last, gentle kiss to the swell of her breast, then sits back on his heels.

Jemma’s eyes open as his weight shifts off of her, and she props herself up on her elbows.

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“I don’t want you,” he says, and watches her eyes widen. There’s relief there, but it’s mixed with hurt—that’s something, at least. “Not if you’re not willing.”

She frowns, sitting up. “What are you talking about? I’m willing—of course I’m willing. I’m—”

“You’re terrified,” he corrects, and she flinches. “You think I can’t tell?”

He’s used to people being afraid of him. He enjoys it, in fact—lives for it, for the way a single raised eyebrow can make people tremble, for the way even his nominal superiors hesitate in the face of his displeasure. He loves it.

But he doesn’t want it here. Not from her.

There’s a furrow in her brow that he’d like to smooth away, the same way he’d like to kiss the lip she’s biting. But in this position, it’s too easy for even the softest touch to be read as a threat, and she’s scared enough already. So, with regret, he moves further back, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed.

Jemma sighs and draws her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest.

“All right, fine,” she says. Her fingers shift on her calves, tap-tap-tapping the way she does when she’s trying to keep herself under control. “I’m…apprehensive, yes.”

He already knew he was right. The confirmation makes his heart twinge, anyway.

“I don’t want to be,” she adds, frowning at her knees. “But you must admit, I’ve excellent reason. You _gave_ me excellent reason.”

“I did,” he admits, heavily. “What happened in Cuba—”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” she interrupts, and the tension in her shoulders makes his fingers itch. “Please.”

Grant has to turn away at the crack in her voice. He scrubs a hand over his mouth, cursing himself.

He lost control in Cuba. He was careless—punch drunk and giddy from finally being rid of that fucking ridiculous cover—and finding her in that shack with Fitz, watching her search his face, knowing she was looking for signs of that guy he _hated_ …

He lost his grip on the anger and jealousy and everything else he’d been holding back for years, and he took it out on Fitz and then kept her prisoner for three days.

Of course she’s scared.

“Okay,” he says. “We don’t have to.”

He takes a look at her, at the tight grip she’s got on her legs and the hunch to her shoulders and the goosebumps on her arms, and sighs. However the rest of this conversation goes, he’s pretty sure sex is off the table for today, and if she’s scared of him she’s gotta be feeling vulnerable, sitting on the bed wearing nothing but her underwear.

Her shirt’s out of the question; half of its buttons are scattered across the floor. He thinks about giving her his, but it might give her the wrong idea—well, the right idea, really, but it’s the wrong time for it.

So when he stands, he steps over both of their shirts and goes to grab a new one from her closet.

“Here,” he says. “You look cold.”

“…I am,” she says, accepting it slowly. “Thank you.”

She uncurls from her position long enough to pull it on, and by the time she finishes buttoning it, some of the tension has gone out of her. Of course, he’s gonna bring it right back with this next question, but it can’t be helped.

“So,” he says. “We’ve established that you’re scared of me. You wanna tell me why you jumped me, then?”

As expected, it makes her tense. What he’s _not_ expecting is annoyance.

“I told you,” she says. “I don’t _want_ to be frightened. Do you think this is easy for me? Fearing my own bloody husband?” Her mouth twists unhappily into something between a scowl and a pout. “Whatever else is between us, we’ve always been very physically compatible. I was hoping the rest would…fall into place.”

Huh. He…honestly can’t tell if she’s lying.

She’s not giving off any of the usual cues, which suggests she’s being honest. She’s always been such a terrible liar that it’s hard to imagine she’s managed to eliminate most of, if not all, of her tells in just four months.

But her story has some pretty glaring holes.

“I’d like to believe that’s true,” he says.

Jemma frowns. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Last time we saw each other, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough,” he reminds her. It’s an effort to keep his voice light; just the memory of the way she looked at him then, the fear and the anger and the betrayal, is enough to piss him off. “You said you hated me—and you called me a monster, which was just hurtful.”

She winces.

“Now all of the sudden you just wanna put all that behind us?” he asks. “Come on, baby. I might not be a genius like you, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she says, a little sadly. She draws her knees up again and rests her chin on them, watching him with a little frown. “Not at all. I was just…hoping to smooth things over with sex before we got to the difficult bits.”

“The difficult bits like…me being HYDRA?” he guesses. “Because if you’re expecting me to believe that you’re suddenly okay with that—”

“I’m not,” she says. “Not even a little. But…” She hugs her legs a little tighter. “I’d like to be.”

…Well that’s a surprise. “You what?”

“I’ve lost everything else,” she says miserably. “I want to keep something—I want to keep _you_. And if the only way to do that is to learn to accept your allegiances, then so be it.”

Hearing that she wants to keep him is almost enough to make him forget her first sentence. Almost.

“Hold up,” he says. “What do you mean, you’ve lost everything else?” He remembers her earlier evasion on the topic of SHIELD and softens his voice, slipping in some sympathy. “Baby, what happened? Why aren’t you with SHIELD?”

“Apparently my connection to you makes my loyalty suspect,” she says, the bitter twist to her lips belying her unaffected tone. “Once we finished clean-up at Cybertek, I was very politely asked to leave.”

“Seriously?” he asks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she confirms.

Huh. It’s hard to believe SHIELD would be stupid enough to suspect her at all, let alone enough to send her away—but then, it _is_ Coulson they’re talking about. Stupid’s kind of his specialty.

“And no one stuck up for you? Not even Fitz or Skye?”

“Fitz hasn’t spoken to me since Cuba,” she says, eyes on her knees. “And Skye…well, your kidnapping left its scars, apparently.”

“I’m not apologizing for that,” he says, because there’s no point in pretending—if she really does want to make things work, it’s gonna be with _him_ , not his cover. “For either of those things. But I am sorry they hurt _you_.”

She smiles weakly. “The team were all very apologetic, of course. But the general consensus was that they simply couldn’t risk it, so…here I am.”

Grant studies her face, wondering if he’s being paranoid, or if her expression really is just a little _too_ earnest—her smile a little _too_ tremulous.

It might be. It might not.

Either way, he decides, it doesn’t really matter.

If she’s telling the truth, then SHIELD’s loss is absolutely gonna be his gain. If she’s lying…

If she’s lying, there are several possible explanations, but the most likely is that she’s trying to play him in an attempt by SHIELD to get her back in his life and in a position to spy on him—and on HYDRA.

Though her being—or trying to be—a spy would make things tricky, he’s sure that given enough time with her, he can win her over to his way of thinking eventually, whether she’s actually open to it or not. It’ll be easier if SHIELD’s turned on her, sure, but her being loyal won’t make it impossible.

Whether she’s lying or honest, the first step remains the same: get her to leave with him willingly.

“Here you are,” he agrees, and hitches his chin at the stack of info packets on the nightstand. “You know, if you’re looking for a job, HYDRA’s got plenty of openings.”

“I’m sure it does,” she says. “But as you yourself pointed out, I’ve not yet managed to lose my fear of you—and I actually love _you_. I don’t imagine my distaste for HYDRA will be any easier to shed.”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But we can start small.”

“How?”

“Come home with me,” he says.

Jemma hesitates.

“No pressure,” he adds, although he certainly intends to apply some—gently. “My quarters have a guest room, and you’re welcome to it.”

After another second’s hesitation, she scoots closer to him. Not a lot—not enough to put her within touching distance—but he’ll take it over her huddling back against the headboard like a battered wife.

“How will that help me with my HYDRA problem?” she asks.

Does she sound too eager to be convinced? He’s confident in his ability to sway her no matter what, but it would be nice to know for sure what he’s working with.

“I live on base,” he says. “You can take some time to adjust to HYDRA without actually working for us. And once you’re a little more comfortable with the idea…HYDRA’s not _just_ about death and destruction, you know.”

“Really,” she says, plainly skeptical.

“Funding’s gotta come from somewhere,” he shrugs. “There are a lot of fully operational fronts doing work in medical and environmental research, botany, astronomy—you name it. I’m sure we could find you a position in one of those.”

Not that HYDRA will be eager to have one of the world’s foremost biochemists working for a _front_ instead of the cause, but he’s sure he can make them understand that it’s for the best. They’ll get her working on the main floor eventually; it’ll just take time.

Jemma chews on her thumbnail. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It’s not,” he says. “It won’t be.”

“I don’t have to hurt anyone?” she checks, and he suppresses a smile.

That’s a lot less fight than he was expecting—more evidence in favor of a ploy—but it’s all to the better.

Honestly, a part of him really hopes it _is_ a trick, a carefully calculated sob story meant to get her into HYDRA (and his bed, he imagines; if Coulson’s behind this, he probably wasn’t counting on Grant picking up on—or, more likely, caring about—Jemma’s fear) to spy on them.

And not just because winning her over—and punishing her for her deception—could be fun. He’d rather her be planning on betraying him than be so broken by SHIELD that she’s willing to abandon her principles so easily.

Jemma’s morals are inconvenient for him, but they’re important to her. If she’s turning her back on them after so little persuasion…

Coulson killed John, so Grant’s gonna kill him either way. But if this isn’t a trick—if Jemma’s genuinely _this_ shattered—then he’s gonna make it very slow and very painful.

“Not at all,” he says. “And no one will hurt _you_ , I promise.”

He’s got a few cards left to play, and he thinks it’s time for this one: he fishes her wedding ring—which has been in his possession since Cuba, when she pulled it off and threw it in his face—out of his pocket and holds it out to her.

She stills.

“Especially not me,” he adds, gentling his tone, and she hesitantly accepts the ring.

Then she just stares down at it, turning it over and over instead of putting it on. “I want to believe you.”

“It’ll take time,” he says, shading his voice with understanding. “And that’s fine. You can take as long as you need; I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and she drags her bottom lip between her teeth, watching him.

“Even if I want you to?” she asks shrewdly.

“Even then,” he admits easily. “I’m not gonna push you, but I’m not letting you get away from me again.”

As far as reassurance goes, it’s probably counter-productive. But he’s not pretending to be anyone other than who he is, not anymore, and she’s gonna have to learn sooner or later that he’s got no intention of letting her go. Sooner is better, he thinks.

“ _Do_ you want me to?” he asks, when she doesn’t respond.

“No,” she says. “I already told you, I—I want to stay with you. I want to keep you. I just…” She shrugs one shoulder and looks down at her ring again. “I’m not certain I can.”

“You never know unless you try,” he offers.

“I suppose not,” she agrees, eyes drifting toward the door.

“Come home with me, Jemma. Whether you join HYDRA or not, we’ll make it work.”

She’s already decided to agree; he can see it in her face. But for whatever reason—probably her morals, if she’s being honest, and nerves, if it’s a trap —she’s still hesitating. So he lets his face soften and slides his hand towards hers on the mattress—not close enough to touch, but close enough to show that he _wants_ to, that he’s leaving the decision in her hands.

Then he plays another card.

“I love you,” he says—sincerely. “I want you with me. Please.”

Her eyes flicker—from his hand to his face, to the ring she’s still holding, to the door, and then back to the ring—and resolve settles over her features. With a deep breath, she straightens her shoulders and slides the ring onto her finger.

Satisfaction curls in his chest. He will freely and happily admit to being a very possessive man, and the thought of Jemma walking around without her ring—without this very clear indication that she is _off-limits_ —has been driving him kind of crazy for the last four months.

He’s careful to keep what he’s feeling off of his face, but he doesn’t really need to bother. Jemma isn’t looking at him. Instead, she’s studying the ring: the same way he used to catch her studying her engagement ring, hand outstretched and fingers spread. Of course, back then she always looked happy—giddy, even. Now…

He realizes, with surprise, that he can’t actually read her expression. He’s got no idea what she’s thinking or feeling right now.

He’s impressed.

Oh, it’s kind of worrying, too—if she’s gained the ability to hide what she’s thinking, the chances of this being a trick just went up by like fifteen percent—but for the most part, he’s proud. Jemma’s always been a terrible liar, and for her to improve this much in such a short period…well, he’d compliment her on it, if he didn’t think she’d take it wrong.

Her unreadable expression disappears, replaced by uncertainty, as she looks away from the ring to find him watching her.

“You’re certain I won’t have to hurt anyone?” she asks again.

“Positive,” he says. “No one’s gonna make you do anything you don’t want to.”

Whether he’ll ever get her to the point where she _wants_ to hurt people…well, that’s the long game, and even odds he won’t bother. He loves Jemma as she is; he doesn’t want to turn her into a totally different person.

Just one that won’t have any objections to staying with him.

“Okay?” he asks.

She nods once, resolutely. “Okay.”

Grant makes sure to keep his smile perfectly pleasant, without a hint of triumph or menace or anything else that might unsettle her, as he offers her his hand, but hers still trembles a little when she accepts it. It’s understandable—whatever her motives, it’s pretty obvious that she’s genuinely scared of him—but it itches at him anyway. His heart clenches a little in his chest as he stands and helps her off the bed.

It’s not a surprise that she’s afraid of him, and he knows he only has himself to blame. He let his control slip in Cuba and he’s paying for it now. Still, knowing the reason for it doesn’t make him hate it any less.

He loves Jemma. He doesn’t want her fear.

He lets go of her hand long enough to pick his shirt up and pull it on, while she does the same with her skirt. With her shirt untucked, hair ruffled from having his hand in it, and lips swollen from his attention, she looks—well, she looks fucking gorgeous, like she just rolled out of his bed, and for a second he wants her so much he can’t even breathe for it.

Then she smiles at him, and the timid edge to it instantly cools him off.

“Hey,” he says, and steps into her space. He smooths her hair down gently, taking some comfort in the way she leans into the touch; she might be scared, but she wants him, too. “You don’t need to be afraid, baby. I know it’s not gonna go away overnight, but I’ll tell you as often as you need to hear it—you’ve got nothing to fear. I’m gonna take care of you.”

She rests both of her hands against his chest and goes on to her toes to kiss him once, sweetly. He lets her keep it soft, easy, and when she pulls back, her smile is a little brighter.

“I know you will,” she says, stepping back. “And…I’ll do my best. To not be afraid, I mean.”

“I know you will,” he echoes, and presses a swift kiss to her forehead. “Now, what do you say we get your things packed and go?”

“Yes, please,” she says.

There’s still a better than good chance that this is a trick—that he’s bringing a SHIELD spy home with him, right to the heart of HYDRA’s operation—but honestly, he doesn’t care.

All that matters is that he has Jemma, and he’s not letting her go again.


End file.
